


I'll be Watching You

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mycroft IS the British Government, Mycroft has had a horrendous day, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sexting, Voyeurism, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:14:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“God,” he says, “you’re gorgeous, so gorgeous like this.” He reaches out to touch the screen, the perfect cupid bow of the upper lip that’s trembling in concentration. The love he feels in that moment is so overwhelming it aches and he almost sobs with the discomfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be Watching You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [daasgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Every Breath You Take](https://archiveofourown.org/works/689019) by [daasgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/daasgrrl/pseuds/daasgrrl). 



> Written as a gift for daasgrrl. This is a remix of her terrific story Every Breath I Take, an undertaking she kindly permitted.  
> Please go and read that first if you haven't yet for otherwise this fic might make little sense to you. Besides, daasgrrl is a terrific writer. You'll enjoy yourself, I'm sure.
> 
> Thank you, daasgrrl, for being part of the Holmescest comm. Such a wonderful place to dwell.
> 
> Betaed by the marvellous stardust_made, who will always remain one of the best writers that ever worked in the Sherlock fandom.

This day, it turned out, was one of _those_ days, and Mycroft is sincerely relieved it’s almost over.

At least not all was lost today, thank God. Or rather, thank Mycroft for his propensity to forestall the other players’ every possible move. Two decades of dwelling in Whitehall’s corridors have taught him a tactical retreat will ultimately lead to his opponent’s inevitable defeat. Sadly, in this specific instance time is of the essence and Mycroft can barely afford to squander the commodity by lounging aimlessly in his campaigning tent and holding his horses until the enemies of reason run themselves to ground. Yet, he’s enough of a realist to recognise for the moment that’s the sole option he’s got. The remainder of the day Mycroft spent strengthening the foundations of his own solution to the political conundrum thrown at his doorstep. To this end he’s stealthily shovelled stones and earth from beneath the rickety structure built by the temporary winner of today’s unnecessary scuffle. If only these people would understand they’re being paid to serve the British nation; not their pathetically overblown egos.

A gust of unpleasantly moist air rouses Mycroft from his reverie. He hasn’t even noticed the car has drawn to a halt. Anthony is standing at attention beside the door, his other hand proffered for Mycroft’s umbrella and _attaché_ case. With a sigh Mycroft uncurls himself from the close shell of the backseat into the soft drizzle that has been shrouding London all day. It’s draped itself over her roofs and pavements and steadily permeated the earth of her parks and the layers of inadequate clothing bedecking the unfortunates whose home consists of one of those same parks’ benches.

“Thank you, Anthony.” Mycroft accepts the case and the handle of his unfurled umbrella from his chauffeur. “I won’t be needing the car until nine tomorrow morning.”

“All right, Mr Holmes. Have a pleasant night.” Briefly lifting his cap in acknowledgement Anthony hastens to the front of the vehicle, leaving Mycroft to hide his chin inside the plush folds of his cashmere scarf in a vain protection against the penetrating dampness.

The house feels warm and inviting with lights at strategic spots left glowing in welcome. In the vestibule Mycroft rids himself of his coat and scarf and arranges his umbrella on the drying rack before making straight for the servant’s staircase.

At the bottom of the stairs the mouth-watering aroma of his housekeeper’s steak-and-kidney pie insinuates itself into his nose and Mycroft can feel it twitch in appreciation. The pastry is left simmering in the Aga’s bread oven, waiting for him to draw it out and deposit it on the metal coaster placed in the middle of the table. Mycroft loosens the knot of his tie and undoes the buttons of his waistcoat, then sits down to engage in what will likely be the single highlight of this day. 

If he were inclined to believe in fairy tales he wouldn’t be surprised to discover his housekeeper was the ghost of Auguste Escoffier reincarnated in the disguise of a lower middle class housewife, Mycroft ruminates while tucking into the pie. He can think of but few pastry chefs at London’s better restaurants able to produce a worthy rival of the deliciously flaky crust sitting on top of the marvel spread out in front of him. The earthy flavours of the accompanying beetroot and orange salad form the perfect counterpoint for the explosion of meaty taste that is the pie’s filling, while the 2003 Monprivato Barolo the esteemed lady has decanted provides a harmonious background. 

Since breakfast, which, as is Mycroft’s wont, consisted of two slices of toast with homemade raspberry jam, a grapefruit, and half a pot of Prince of Wales tea, Mycroft has had no further sustenance to help him through his gruelling day. Well, safe for a quick cup of bland dishwater posing as tea and one bite of a couple of even blander biscuits. He’d left the biscuits languishing on their plate in the ghastly area that passes for a canteen in the FCO Main Building, together with the two thirds of the ‘tea’ he was physically unable to swallow. 

Small wonder the country is going to the dogs when people, properly educated people at that, concede to suck lukewarm water doused with artificial colouring from a thin paper cup and feed themselves with what constitutes essentially a series of attacks on their health, in the form of pressed sawdust mixed with copious quantities of HFCS. Back at his office he ordered his PA to annul the operator’s contract and find one offering _actual_ food to Her Majesty’s Government’s servants.

Mostly Mycroft doesn’t mind eating alone. Sometimes, now for instance, when the food is truly excellent and deserving of his full consideration, he even prefers it. Still, though his olfactory nerves relish the rich smell of each forkful he lifts to his mouth and his taste buds bask in the heady blasts of savour against his palate, the food doesn’t improve Mycroft’s mood. Once he’s done eating he’s as tired and downcast as he was when he first entered his home. 

Dabbing his mouth with his napkin Mycroft reflects on the files in the briefcase he’s left in the corridor, all waiting for his perusal: the manila folders on the upcoming Indian elections, Britain’s agenda for the next World Economic Forum, and the latest NHS statistics on the chances of surviving a stay at one of the nation’s hospitals. In addition, there are the files on MI6 near-disastrous antics in Libya he locked away in the top left drawer of his desk at three o’clock this morning in order to catch a few hours of sleep. He quenched his conscience with the promise that he would look them over tonight. A pledge easily granted, as he was still blessedly unaware of today’s harrowing events.

The screech of the chair’s legs over the floor tiles as Mycroft shoves it from the table rings unpleasantly in his ears. For an instant he contemplates a cup of espresso to round off the meal, but in his present fidgety frame of mind he lacks the patience to wait for the machine to heat up to the required temperature. Instead, Mycroft trudges up the stairs and heads for the drawing room and the drinks cabinet perched to the left of the sofa. There he pours himself two fingers of whisky and, after a brief mental skirmish, gives in and adds another finger. He places the stopper back on the carafe and picks up the glass.

Rather than raising it to his lips Mycroft’s hand chooses to remain at the level of his waist, swirling the liquid in slow circles around the tumbler’s crystal walls. He ends the indeterminate period of indecisiveness by leaving the glass on top of the cabinet, untasted.

Liquor is but an insufficient replacement for Mycroft’s real need. What he wants—no, what he _craves_ more than anything now is to bury his face into the nest of soft and inky curls perched atop his brother’s beautiful head. To slowly move his mouth over the locks – each hair as smooth and supple as a strand of spun silk – and luxuriate in the sensation of the tendrils susurrating against his skin. To widen his nostrils and inhale their scent – Sherlock’s scent – and smell it thickening as Mycroft’s hands dip lower to pull his brother’s body flush against his.

To quell the quick rush of desire at the mere notion of his younger sibling, Mycroft makes for the basement stairs again. He retrieves his briefcase from beside the kitchen door on the way to his study, situated at the front of the house: hidden behind the housekeeper’s domain of kitchen, scullery and laundry room, and shielded by an inch thick door crafted out of rolled homogeneous steel.

Discretion is the core business of Mycroft’s profession so no one is ever granted access to this room, save for the technicians admitted regularly to install the latest in television and IT devices, with the constant hawk eye of the British Government in person piercing their backs. 

It’s Mycroft who dusts the equipment and the bookshelves lining every wall of the room, hoovers the floorboards and wipes the glossy mahogany surface of the large desk. During the rare instances of self-congratulatory grandiosity Mycroft occasionally permits himself to indulge in, he considers the latter the ship of state’s true quarterdeck. 

In his present state the great slab of wood closer resembles a plank Mycroft is being made to walk, with the sharp point of a pirate’s rapier prodding just an inch from the small of this back.

Groaning, thoroughly annoyed with himself, with the _bloody ingrate_ who dared to cross _him_ , with the whole despicable lot of _incompetents_ that deign to term themselves representatives of her Majesty’s Government, and with the universe at large, Mycroft throws himself into the room’s sole chair, clamping the armrests with both hands to prevent the hulk’s wheels from rolling away. 

The image of a pirate ship has – inevitably – aroused the memory of the occasion the desk and the chair served yet another function, nearly two decades ago. Mycroft had been off guard, still mentally drunk from his first private audience with the woman who would in due time become his dearest friend and greatest ally. Sherlock, always on the lookout for a breach in his sibling’s defences, had pounded and managed to insinuate himself past inch thick steel and onto the desk. By the time they were done its stately orderliness had degenerated into a _tableau_ of debauchery fit to rival an extravaganza staged in one of those Victorian brothels specialised in catering to an exclusive clientele of punctilious taste. 

“Now you’ll have to think of me every time you’re sitting here,” had been Sherlock’s farewell. He hadn’t looked back, quietly shutting the door behind him, and leaving Mycroft – physically sated, emotionally dishevelled and even more besotted with his brother – to ponder upon the depth of Sherlock’s insecurity if he felt the need to assert his hold on Mycroft by way of such blatant means.

Endlessly fascinating as that puzzle has proven itself to be, at this particular moment it doesn’t require his immediate attention, unlike the Indian elections and the NHS statistics, which do. Heaving a deep sigh Mycroft flicks on the TV and starts up the computers in front of him and on the right of the desk. He fishes the stacks of folders and _The Times_ out of his briefcase and, as is his custom on solitarily spent evenings, commits to solving the concise and the cryptic crosswords, his gaze darting between the ticker tape running at the bottom of the TV-screen and the paper in front of him. He cracks both puzzles within the time frame he set himself last week and decides to raise the bar by subtracting another minute, starting tomorrow. Leisure time dealt with, Mycroft pulls the first file towards him and, pen at the ready, starts reading.

***

A quarter of an hour later Mycroft concludes that the report he’s perusing might as well have been written in Demotic, a language the essentials of which he’s never bothered to grasp. His concentration keeps dashing off, tearing from shelf to shelf like Sherlock and his doctor flatmate on one of those wild-goose-chases over the rooftops they both appear to take such delight in.

Mycroft has already turned off the TV, reasoning that the constant flickering of the screen and equally incessant blabber distracted him. Ten minutes ago he divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat and rolled up his shirtsleeves to create the proper mental picture of a man dedicating himself to his task. Next he tried pinching the bridge of his nose; a technique that usually helps to rekindle his consciousness, but tonight the trick doesn’t work its magic. 

After another thirty seconds of staring at the letters, which have by now transformed themselves into a carnival parade of tiny dancing men, Mycroft screws the cap back onto his pen and pushes the paper aside. His eyes slant to the desk’s right top drawer to monitor his fingers that have followed suit and are now brushing the wood of the handle. As if eyes and fingers and the rest of Mycroft aren’t fully cognisant of the drawer’s contents. A bottle of eau de cologne, a tube of lubricant, some wipes and, perhaps most confounding to the casual observer, a cheap semi-disposable mobile casually resting beside a pair of state-of-the-art wireless on-ear headphones.

For a while Mycroft is lost in the thrill of the warm, smooth mahogany against the skin of his finger pads, languidly trailing the length of the drawer. When he comes to he’s shocked to discover it’s already half past nine. Oh damn, at this rate he’s never going to finish before three AM, again. Thankfully it’s the weekend tomorrow, and his schedule is limited to an appearance at the Chelsea Flower show, followed by a visit to the opera and a supper with some inconceivably dull but very influential captains of industry. That will leave him with plenty of time to wrap up the extant workload, provided nothing untoward happens in the meantime. Which is unlikely but— 

Mycroft’s brain stutters to a halt as he watches his hand opening the drawer of its own accord and grab the phone. It is, however, quick to take over. Perhaps his body is right and mind should give way to matter to clear itself of the hotchpotch cluttering every nook and cranny. A merciful, all-cleansing whiteout, with the added boon of a boost to his morale and confidence, and the capacity to actually get some work done this evening. 

Of course his appeal may come to naught – that’s in the nature of the arrangement – but he ought to give it a shot at least. From the start Sherlock has responded straightaway eight point six times out of ten when he is able – or inclined – to play along, so Mycroft needs only linger in a limbo of uncertainty for fifteen minutes at the most. If Sherlock hasn’t replied by then he will give up and go to bed, swallow a Temazepam, tell himself this day never happened and drop off into blissful sleep to wake up with renewed vigour to a day of fresh opportunities.

 _Socrates._ Mycroft taps out.

Sherlock, Mycroft knows, believes Mycroft’s decision to initiate these meetings by means of the names of the participants in Plato’s _Symposion_ was nothing but a whimsy. The assumption is another prime example of Sherlock’s narcissism and lack of true interest in other people’s emotional motivations, even the few he claims to be involved with. On the other hand, Sherlock is almost as clever as Mycroft. By now he will have sussed out the names’ significance as an indicator of Mycroft’s moods – and needs – without ever having reflected upon the various discourses’ content.

From its earliest beginnings their liaison has been hampered by the fact that the world frowns upon the kind of fraternal affinity they enjoy. Mycroft spent the first months after the pivotal change of their relationship in a jumbled agony of insatiable lust, pangs of emotion so sharp he was convinced his heart would burst, and the perpetual fear of exposure, inevitably leading to the fantasy of the crash his burgeoning career would suffer. 

Meanwhile Sherlock, proclaiming himself indifferent to other people’s opinions of him, his elder brother, and what the two of them might engage in behind closed doors, suffered under Mycroft’s continuous admonitions for secrecy, grudgingly refraining even from seeking his brother’s hand in public. In the bedroom, in _their_ bedroom, Sherlock’s penchant for contact, his need to wrap an arm around Mycroft’s waist and snuggle his head in the crook of his neck so the soft curls nuzzled Mycroft’s jawline as they nodded off, continued to overwhelm and gratify senses already ridden past limits Mycroft hadn’t known he possessed.

Defying boundaries is, after all, Sherlock’s speciality. It’s one of the key elements to explain the splendid success of their bond. It also goes a long way to explaining its perennially perilous state. Together they’d set off for Mycroft to harvest the moon merely to have Sherlock insist they went on to gather the sun as well. Inevitably this has led to prolonged silences, each of them refusing to be the first to give in. The most damaging, in Mycroft’s assessment, was that long night they spent lying with their backs turned on each other, fretting; and the endless stretch of the Emperor bed, spanning between them in the discrete – hideously tasteful – hideaway on the Devon coast Mycroft had booked them for a weekend. Earlier that evening Mycroft had flat out refused to cater to Sherlock’s newest caprice. His desire was always to worship his brother’s body, not mar its beauty by chastising it. 

Then there’s the additional trouble of the increasing demands of Mycroft’s profession, multiplied by the notoriety Sherlock has acquired through his. They’re like the royal offspring in the Medieval ballad, each yearning for the other on his side of the gorge, which, in their case was carved out of the differences in their sensibilities. their outlook on life and the world in general, With both of them unable – or unwilling – to take a flying leap across the chasm and join his sibling in the physical realm, they had little to look forward to but the foundering of their relationship, and the salvaging of the wreck.

Shortly after the Devon debacle Mycroft dedicated an evening to pondering their predicament. Fingers templed in front of his mouth, he entered his mind palace and took a left turn for the amply stocked library, eyes staring sightlessly at the TV. A sudden commotion prodded him out of the near-catatonic state he’d sunk into while browsing the folios on thwarted love. The remote control was already in his hand when his brain kicked in and he realised the reality programme he was about to switch off had just handed him the perfect solution on a grubby platter.

Ever the strategist Mycroft devoted a great deal of attention to creating optimum conditions for his proposal’s delivery and reception. When Mycroft swept down on his brother several weeks later, Sherlock’s phone was blocked temporarily to incoming calls from DI Gregory Lestrade and Detective Sergeant Donovan. The previous evening Sherlock had rounded off a locked-room murder, the kind of crime he always claimed was his favourite. The set of his flatmate’s features, detailed on CCTV as the good doctor marched on to a long day of telling sniffling flu epidemic victims there was nothing he could do except advise them to go home and sweat it out, informed Mycroft that Sherlock was still high as a kite from a dose of insufferable smugness. Mrs Hudson, meanwhile, had left the house at ten AM for an impromptu visit to her great-niece in Richmond, who happened to be one of the newest members of Mycroft’s PA’s fleet of assistants, and a girl of slightly above average acuity.

As Mycroft had foreseen – his little brother is nothing if not predictable to him – Sherlock’s first reaction was to balk at Mycroft’s suggestion. His insults were particularly inventive, permutating principally on the advice for Mycroft to resort to his reels of CCTV footage if he wanted to indulge his voyeuristic tendencies and get himself off to a vision of Sherlock rather than the real thing. Mycroft rode out the storm sipping the tea he’d prepared himself after Sherlock had spurned the suggestion with the statement he didn’t want any. Finally Sherlock rose to his feet with a thunderous air to point an imperious finger at the door and demand that Mycroft get himself out.

By the time Mycroft kissed him goodbye some time later they had determined upon the best places for both cameras and the microphone to be mounted. They agreed discretion decreed Sherlock install the fixtures himself. The scientist housing in Sherlock’s chest muttered appreciatively as he sat caressing the equipment. The glint in his eye when Mycroft handed him his copy of the twin mobile phones with the encouragement to purchase whatever further accessories he deemed necessary was positively lecherous. 

Back outside 221’s doorstep Mycroft gave in to half a minute of heady elation. In appealing to Sherlock’s weakest character traits: his love of theatrics, his egotism, his heedlessness of proprieties and the feelings of others, Mycroft had persuaded him to concur with a scheme both they themselves and – here Mycroft hesitated but ruthless self-knowledge was his most admirable quality so he pushed on relentlessly – _their love_ would benefit from. Honed to their respective predilections it was designed to bring out the best of them rather than their worst.

The phone buzzing with an incoming text message jolts him back to the present. _Here._

Six minutes have passed since Mycroft’s request for his brother’s attention. Relief, gratefulness and the raw emotion of tenderness cause his heart to swell and his fingers to fly over the keyboard to switch on the cameras and the microphone hidden in the headboard of Sherlock’s bed. He uses the forty-five seconds it usually takes to set up the connection to toe off his shoes, unbutton his braces and strip his trousers, folding them neatly over the hanger with his waistcoat and jacket, remembering to remove his tie as well. Back at the desk Mycroft opens the top four buttons of his shirt and sprays some eau de cologne onto his chest before typing, _Good._

The screen on the right reveals Sherlock draped over the bed and lifting the phone to read the text. Wry amusement fleets over his face, soon replaced with a derisive twitch of his _retroussé_ nose, a mannerism Mycroft finds quite endearing. 

“Your ardour is overwhelming,” he says, which is just the kind of cheeky comment Mycroft expected Sherlock to deliver. Ensconced in the comforting embrace of the chair, surrounded by the sound of his brother’s voice, with the perfume of Sherlock’s favourite scent wafting into his nostrils and his face so close Mycroft needs simply reach across the desk to cradle Sherlock’s cheek in his hand—the illusion is almost perfect. 

Every so often a stab of guilt pierces Mycroft’s heart when he reflects on the wealth of sensations Sherlock offers him during these encounters, while all he can give his brother in return is some directions and his undivided devotion. He’s alluded to this disparity occasionally, inviting Sherlock to consider how to amend and improve the situation, but each time Sherlock declared himself perfectly satisfied with their respective roles. 

“I _know_ you,” he dismissed Mycroft’s qualms. “It’s easier to get off without your bulk pressing me into the mattress and your breath wheezing in my ear like some overworked hoover.” As Mycroft knew his little brother equally well, he condoned the indelicate phrasing in favour of the tender sentiment it conveyed, just like the smile he’s now sending up to the camera straight over his head, up to Mycroft.

Hurriedly Mycroft composes another text aimed at keeping the smile in place a little longer. 

_I’m sorry. It’s been a long day._

The expression on Sherlock’s face intensifies, spilling over into his eyes. Their colour is enhanced by the cobalt blue of Sherlock’s shirt; they’re as calm and gentle as a lake on a summer’s day, its sparkling waters reflecting a blue sky unmarred by clouds and lapping languidly at the dark rim of its shore. Mycroft glides along the mirror smooth surface, trailing his fingers through the water as if seeking to gauge the clear depths with their green and gold flecks glinting at the bottom. 

On the bed Sherlock stretches out, slow and luxurious, pushing up his arms before extending them sideways as if he were inviting Mycroft into a gondola where he’s already reclining against the cushions. He makes them both properly comfortable, throwing out a pillow to make room for Mycroft, and then settling nicely in the middle again. If Mycroft were lying beside him now his little brother would take up three quarters of the bed. Mycroft would likely enjoy it, though. Their toes would tangle and play with the other’s naked feet. 

Preliminaries over, Sherlock begins to unbutton his shirt. He’s obviously doing his best to please Mycroft, heeding Socrates’ exhortation to tread softly because his brother is tired, and trying to let his fingers linger over the buttons. However, Rashness is his name so he’s still too fast, already three buttons down when Mycroft hasn’t even had a chance to start caressing his face in earnest. 

Besides, Sherlock looks particularly fetching in this shirt. The hue enhances the gleaming whiteness of his throat and deepens the darkness of his curls. Mycroft is in no hurry for him to discard it. He imagines insinuating his hand beneath the collar and over the smooth crest of the clavicle, where the skin is warm. His fingers brush over the mobile’s keys.

 _I want to kiss you first._

Mycroft can read Sherlock’s understanding as he reads the message. Obediently Sherlock reaches up with his free hand to draw his fingers down his face. In front of the screens Mycroft copies him, tracing his fingertips over his own coarser skin and the roundness of his jaw in the pretence of them each stroking the features of the other. His cheeks flush, heated by his brother’s touch, there, at the pulse point just below his ear. Nostrils flaring, Mycroft bends towards Sherlock to drink in the musk of his skin, the sweetness of his breath. Together they’re locked in the brief spell just before the kiss.

Then Sherlock tips his head and offers partially opened lips, Mycroft’s for the taking. He’s pressed three fingers against them, clearly conjuring the digits into the idea of Mycroft’s mouth descended on his. Mycroft complies and Sherlock moves his lips to adjust them to Mycroft’s, pliantly yielding to the pressure. His eyelids have fallen half-closed and he looks about to be lost in abandon as Mycroft plunders his mouth, urging his brother to savour his in return. He wallows in the sound of Sherlock’s quickened breath, a barely audible sigh.

 _Lovely._ he tells Sherlock. On the screen Sherlock’s eyes light up at the praise and he toys with his lips some more, indulging a private fantasy before sucking two fingers into his mouth. The gesture is efficient rather than calculatedly lewd and yet the sight of the slender digits entering the warm and wet cavity that Mycroft has so often, so ceaselessly, explored, has his groin stir. 

His eyes are glued to the screen where the fingers are now travelling over the rounded shelf of Sherlock’s lower lip, leaving a glistening trail of moisture that could be anything Mycroft desires it to be. Sherlock’s mouth remains slightly ajar, an affectation of obscenity aimed deliberately at the camera. 

If Mycroft were so inclined he might dig his fingers into Sherlock’s mop of curls now, guide his shaft between those plum, inviting lips and start thrusting. Mycroft grimaces. He really is very tired. That’s not their way. Always, Sherlock must reach completion first. Only when Sherlock is sated can Mycroft start chasing his own orgasm. It’s one of the responsibilities that come with being Sherlock’s big brother.

Sherlock’s hand wanders down and Mycroft fondles the warm skin with lips and teeth and hands, licking at the small mole that heightens the perfection of the pale throat and nipping at the ridges of the collarbones, which rise so invitingly from the planes of Sherlock’s chest.

Idly, his fingers flick open the remaining buttons, exposing more and more of his brother’s flesh. When he’s done both their shirts fall open, fanning away from their bodies. Mycroft surges back up to lap at that titillating beauty spot once more before descending to Sherlock’s nipples, the left one first. It’s slightly more prominent than its twin, clamouring for attention. Lightly, Mycroft rolls the tiny bud between his lips, never quite biting—

The loud gasp as Sherlock pinches – hard – jolts Mycroft out of his trance into the mundane surroundings of his study. He fires off an injunction to steer Sherlock back on track.

 _Be gentle._

Sherlock reads the text, and then blatantly, infuriatingly, proceeds to torment the nub of rose skin whilst groaning theatrically. His other hand, still holding the phone, slides down to his crotch and starts rubbing the taut line straining at the trousers’ fabric. The sheer insolence of it has Mycroft clench his fists as he sits watching, impotent to intervene and put a stop to this nonsense. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on him. They’re doing this because each of them can’t give the other what he truly wants. Even that consideration can’t keep his erection from waning. 

For a moment Mycroft considers shutting off the camera feed to give Sherlock an exact piece of his mind. Knowing his little brother, all that will accomplish is to goad him into renewing the exercise at their next encounter. There is nothing Mycroft can do but remain silent in the hope Sherlock will eventually pick up on his displeasure and lay off mauling his flesh. 

Mycroft winces when Sherlock gasps in pain again. He twists and turns his body on the sheets in the exaggerated throes of a cheap porn flick’s dubious star enjoying a stellar orgasm. His head moves wildly on the pillow as he pants loudly, straight into the microphone. 

Fortunately, Mycroft is not entirely without resources. He mutes the sound and opens _The Times_ at the Foreign News section to learn what its journalists have made of the Libyan situation story he had them fed, while waiting for his brother to ride out the more unpalatable aspects of his sexuality. 

Every now and then he throws a quick glance at the screens to check whether Sherlock has yet come back to his senses and remembered the significance of the password that had him end up in bed and in front of the cameras. At long last the dull performance shows signs of flagging before drawing to a full halt. Sherlock must have sussed out he’s lacking an audience. Sometimes silence is the most expedient means towards delivering a message. 

Mycroft lowers the paper to watch as Sherlock takes off his trousers and underwear and sends them flying over the edge of the bed. His erection proves one of them received pleasure from recent events at least. He strokes it with a firm hand. This Mycroft doesn’t mind. He quite likes the feel of those fingers, as long as his but thinner and more calloused, on his own flesh. A few more strokes re-awaken his interest. Inside his briefs his penis stirs, preparing to raise its head and become part of the proceedings once more. 

An air of uncertainty steals over Sherlock’s face, making him look impossibly young. Mycroft activates the sound again, just in time to catch the rustle of Egyptian cotton as Sherlock shrugs off the shirt and unceremoniously lets it drop onto the floor. He lies back onto the mattress, the sheets shifting beneath his shoulders. His mouth rounds into a little moue that could be read as an apology while he gazes up straight at the ceiling, seeking the eye of the camera, and through it his brother’s.

Mycroft decides it will serve for now and reward him with an acknowledgement that yet reveals his displeasure. 

_Thank you._

A few miles from where Mycroft is seated Sherlock glances at the text and then up into the camera again, cocking an eyebrow. _What?_ his expression says but he’s too proud to voice the question and Mycroft is still too annoyed, too distracted by Sherlock’s effrontery to guide him. Let him fend for himself for a while. Mycroft will watch and wait to see what his brother comes up with to break the _impasse_ he’s brought upon them.

When Sherlock understands he’s out on his own he reaches for the lubricant on the side table and slicks up his right hand. He brings it up to his neck, snuggling into the caress and then he slides it, palm flat and fingers splayed wide, down his chest. Over the crest of his ribcage it goes to leave a slithering trail on the plain of his abdomen with the innocent little hollow of his belly button, then down the shadows cast by the iliac crest and lower still, heroically circumventing the penis rising insistently from its dark and curly nest.

Mycroft’s eyes are glued to the hand wandering over Sherlock’s body. His own hand pushes at the briefs and begins indulging in what Sherlock is denying himself, grazing the corona with just the tips of his fingers. Sherlock’s hand travels lower as he draws up his knees and plants his feet onto the mattress, to present himself fully to Mycroft’s eye. Like this he’s unremittingly beautiful.

Enthralled, Mycroft stares at Sherlock’s hand fondling his thighs, the soft fur of his sac and prodding at the soft spot below before drifting aimlessly up the long lithe lines of his thighs again. His lips follow the paths that are now crisscrossing his brother’s skin. They trail over the sharp slant of his hips and dip down to the narrow waist where Mycroft lingers, plying quick little kisses against the muscle that stretches over the hipbone. He presses his mouth into the shallow hollow beneath Sherlock’s scrotum, nudging the testicles with his nose and taking them each into his mouth by turns to slowly suck at them.

Then Mycroft remembers Sherlock’s impatient nature.

 _Tease._ he sends, turning the tables on Sherlock and thus evening out the earlier provocation. Sherlock doesn’t take the bait but smiles up at Mycroft instead. 

“What should I do, then?” he asks though the question is rhetorical, for he’s already aware of the answer. This is the part of their lovemaking they both enjoy, unreservedly. But Sherlock has always liked being instructed, to have Mycroft tell him exactly what he wants him to do. The frequent bouts of mutiny are just an antidote for the inherent submissiveness, which he considers a weakness, not strength. To satisfy his brother’s need Mycroft writes a demand rather than a request. 

_Turn over and let me see you properly._

A little shock of delight quivers at Sherlock’s lips and he hastens to comply, assuming the posture that is perhaps Mycroft’s favourite. Knees drawn up and thighs spread wide he presents the plump perfection of his bottom. Mycroft runs his hands over the soft pale globes, kneading and peppering the firm flesh with kisses alternatingly, shifting his own knees apart and bucking up into his hand. 

He uses the left, which is slightly less adept at handling himself but he needs his right hand to explore the valley between Sherlock’s cheeks. At the gentle brush of Mycroft’s fingers Sherlock moans and rubs himself against the sheets. The fingers veer lower to massage the taut ridge of Sherlock’s perineum. This elicits another moan and more enthusiastic rubbing. At the same time Sherlock tilts his hips in invitation. The left monitor shows his silently entreating lips. Saliva waters Mycroft’s mouth. He drapes himself all over his brother’s back to seal their lips in a promise.

Then Mycroft scoots down on the bed and uses his hands to extend the halves of Sherlock’s behind even further. He licks a long stripe from Sherlock’s sac, drawn tight with lust, all the way up and down again, lapping and laving the flesh rippling in pleasure against his tongue. The musk of Sherlock’s arousal nearly has him drowning. Finally, when his brother is thoroughly wet and slicked up Mycroft pushes his mouth against the small rose of flesh hidden at the very bottom. Fascinated he watches it stirring under his warm gusts of breath. He darts out the tip of his tongue to coax it into unfolding further. His head reels when the muscle flutters and yields to his prodding and Mycroft can let his tongue sink into the hot furrow. In front of him Sherlock growls and squirms against his face in an attempt to take him in deeper. He delves greedily, and swirls his tongue around, feeding the insatiable hunger of his desire.

If they actually were together now Sherlock would start cursing Mycroft, demanding for Mycroft to start opening him up in earnest. “Ask nicely,” Mycroft would chide him, and then reach for the lubricant anyway because there’s nothing he’d rather do.

_Open yourself up for me. Please._

On the right screen Sherlock reaches behind himself. This, of course, is all for Mycroft’s benefit. Sherlock may be as lissom as a snake, but he still has to contort his body in a manner that can’t be wholly comfortable. The sight of slick fingers drifting over the taut stretch of muscle he’s massaging stifles any qualms Mycroft might endure. He adds some more lubricant to the palm of his free hand and uses it to roll his testicles in time to the tentative thrusts of Sherlock’s fingers. At last he breaches the muscle. Together they gasp in pleasure. 

“I wish it were you,” Sherlock murmurs. The sincerity forges a hot shackle of iron around Mycroft’s heart, and then douses it with ice-cold water to draw the band tight.

 _No more than I do._ he replies and when Sherlock begins to push back onto his fingers he must let go of his shaft or he’ll come right then and there and finish their congress before it has even properly begun. More than anything he wants to bury himself into his brother, watch the expectation build on his face and explode as Mycroft brings him to completion.

The text he sends is deliberately crude, a detail that will please Sherlock.

_I wish to see your face. While I fuck you._

Idly, he wonders whether Sherlock will continue to make use of his fingers, or settle on one of the devices developed by human ingenuity in the interminable hunt for sexual gratification. Nine times out of ten it’s the latter, and in eighty seven percent out of those instances the toy settled upon is the unattractively coloured one Sherlock is currently dousing with lubricant. At first Mycroft supposed it one of those deliberate pranks his younger brother is prone to but an extensive study of the object in question has taught Mycroft the shape is vaguely reminiscent of his own penis in a state of arousal. Since then the choice invariably serves to gratify him.

Bracing himself into a proper position between Sherlock legs Mycroft grips his erection again and imagines lining himself up, pushing against the heat rising from his brother’s very core. Gently he circles the opening with the head a few times, shivering at the sight of the quivering muscle, and the tantalising feel of the soft flesh against the most sensitive part of his skin. He bites his lower lip, almost drawing blood, when he finally breaches his brother’s body.

“Oh,” Sherlock gasps, eyes flying open. For a moment Mycroft worries he isn’t loosened up enough, but then Sherlock’s hips rise to meet his thrusts and he drives deeper into the encompassing hotness, withdraws and plunges right in again, savouring the flawless illusion.  
Beneath him Sherlock is babbling nonsense, in time to the rhythm set by their canting hips, “Yes… want you to… oh… fuck me… just like that.” 

His eyes are blown, larger than life, as he stares straight at Mycroft to remind himself he can never shape his mouth around the two syllables Mycroft can see pounding behind the concentrated frown puckering the bridge of his brother’s lovely nose. Because what they’re doing is considered vile, a taboo. Every time Mycroft breaches his brother he breaches the morals of a society he’s dedicated to uphold. 

“Sherlock.” To his ears Mycroft ‘s voice sounds as broken and breathless as Sherlock’s. No one can hear him, not even his brother. “Sherlock,” he repeats at the next tilt of Sherlock’s hips.

 _Harder. More._ Mycroft directs. He stills his hand on his penis, just cradling it protectively against his belly, as he watches the flood of pleasure surge over Sherlock’s face. The long lashes protruding from his heavy-hooded lids screen Mycroft’s view of Sherlock’s dilated pupils. He’s panting open-mouthed, not bothering with the effect he’s having on Mycroft any longer, all naked lust on the cusp of orgasm. Mycroft drinks in the sight, the noises Sherlock is making, his “Yes” and “Fuck…” and the reiteration of his name singing inside Sherlock’s head. 

“God,” he says, “you’re gorgeous, so gorgeous like this.” He reaches out to touch the screen, the perfect cupid bow of the upper lip that’s trembling in concentration. The love he feels in that moment is so overwhelming it aches and he almost sobs with the discomfort. Only the sight of his brother shaking apart under his touch will help to assuage it. 

_I want you to come with me inside you._ It’s what they both want, after all. There are some awkward moments where Sherlock has to change the attributes standing in for Mycroft but then at long last Mycroft is treated to the glorious sight of Sherlock’s pale fingers on his shaft. It surges up into the embrace, flushed and dark, the thick vein that runs along its length throbbing with the urge to rush forward and into completion as Sherlock rocks down against the mattress. 

“I don’t think… that this will last very long,” he manages to utter. The warning is unexpected, a concession of tenderness due to Socrates’ influence perhaps. The screens blur and Mycroft curses inwardly before hastening to swipe at his eyes with the hand that’s not cupping his penis.

He can see the phone buzz against the concave of Sherlock’s belly, close to where his hand is working relentlessly now Mycroft has given permission. _It will suffice._

The hand speeds up. Sherlock likes it fast and rough, likes to pull the foreskin over the head and down in quick jerks of his fingers. His whole body is a taut line shaking with need and want and arching up in unstoppable pursuit of the supreme pleasure that’s solely Mycroft’s to give. 

In his mind Mycroft bends over him on one elbow, nestling the side of Sherlock’s face in one hand and lacing his fingers with Sherlock’s. He’s so hot and tight beneath their twined hands and down there, where Mycroft keeps pushing into him. The illusion is almost frighteningly real so Mycroft isn’t surprised when his fingers start typing what he imagines breathing into Sherlock’s mouth.

_I love you._

On the monitors Sherlock comes with a helpless little cry, ejaculate spurting over his hands and painting his belly. The view of his parted moist lips as he cries out is exquisite, as are the small shudders of the aftershocks rippling through his frame. Mycroft looks and looks, as captivated, as grateful as he was the first time Sherlock shook apart beneath him. When Sherlock opens his eyes again they’re dazed, evidence he’s still dwelling in that place where the mind goes mercifully blank for a while.

Mycroft kisses him and bucks up, at last allowing himself to chase what he has denied himself before. His fingers tighten in imitation of Sherlock’s body clenching around him and he grunts with the effort, sensation washing over him. He digs his hands into Sherlock’s thick curls, nails scraping over his scalp, latches his mouth against Sherlock’s throat and pumps his hips, driving up into the wet heat until he’s tumbling over the edge to briefly join his brother. 

As ever, it’s over all too soon. When Mycroft resurfaces it’s to find his beautiful little brother languishing forlornly on the sheets where, in a perfect world, Mycroft would now be cradling Sherlock’s head on his chest. Mycroft brings up the hand that served as a medium for that what he cannot have up to his mouth to stifle a sob. The taste and the smell of the semen, his and not Sherlock’s, like it should be, wrench forth a second one. 

Suddenly, Sherlock pricks up his ears and he sits up, looking bewildered for a moment and then slinking across the bed and the room with the gracious ease of a black panther stalking the Amazon jungle. He disappears out of the line of the camera’s sight. 

What on Earth is happening? Once again Mycroft swears beneath his breath at the eternal need for discretion. If that weren’t such a constant issue they could have mounted the cameras on a swerving bracket and allow Mycroft to follow Sherlock making his way across the room. Mycroft balls his fists, preparing himself for the worst, for anything.

The look on Sherlock’s face when he comes back isn’t alarmed, however, but rather one of puzzlement mixed with a faint trace of smugness. He settles himself back onto the bed, and stares expectantly up at the camera. It’s obvious he’s not going to explain until Mycroft asks him. Heaving a deep sigh of annoyance at the aggravating little brat’s behaviour Mycroft obliges him nevertheless.

 _Did we have company?_ he types, aiming for a certain nonchalance.

The band that’s always spanning his heart chills when Sherlock’s face grows pensive. “It would appear so,” he answers in a low voice. “Although I believe the main party compromised to be himself. Quite thoroughly, from the looks of things.”

Panic claws at Mycroft’s throat. Rather than annoyed, embarrassed or self-conscious Sherlock looks intrigued. With John Watson pressing his ear to the door where Sherlock and Mycroft engage in their twisted tryst, another element has been added to their arrangement, one that can’t but fascinate his ever-inquisitive little brother. 

Mycroft has no interest in the doctor other than as a steadying influence on his brother’s volatile nature. During his sparse visits to 221B he has perceived the same doesn’t necessarily hold true for Sherlock. John Watson is the first person other than Mycroft whose presence he can abide for longer than ten minutes at a time. With his inexperience in maintaining any kind of meaningful relationship he may have confused Philia with Eros. The doctor, it now seems, is offering. Mycroft must put a stop to this. 

An outright veto will merely goad Sherlock into employing initiatives behind Mycroft’s back. All will come out soon enough of course. Sherlock may be an accomplished actor, but Mycroft has spent his whole life observing him and the angle of his little brother’s wrist beneath the edge of his cuff after the deed is done will tell Mycroft all he needs to know. Such is the bitter irony of their relationship that Sherlock can predict the details that will inform Mycroft of his indiscretion, and might yet advance regardless, delegating to Mycroft the unpleasant task of sorting out his reckless exploit’s aftermath. 

The picture of Sherlock’s face on the left monitor turns nebulous again. No one but Mycroft’s brother holds such sway over the functioning of his elder sibling’s tear ducts. Furious with himself, with Sherlock, with stupid narrow-minded society, Mycroft blinks the tears away. After three more seconds of reflection he forces himself to compose an answer that will satisfy his brother and yet serve to hide Mycroft’s true emotion behind an opaque veil of apparent flattery. 

_I must say your soldier fellow has proven himself most intriguing._

Sherlock’s response is immediate, and refreshingly indignant. “John’s hardly _my soldier fellow,_ ” he exclaims and Mycroft would kiss him right that second if only it were possible. His jubilation is smothered the next instant. “Although…” Sherlock arranges himself on the bed again, as oblivious of the graceful picture he presents as a dapper foal that’s just galloped its first round of the field. The look he propels directly into the camera is equally guileless. “Would that bother you?” he asks and for once he seems to be sincerely interested in Mycroft’s reply. 

It takes all of Mycroft’s composure to keep his fingers from shaking too violently in order to type the requisite answer. When his thumb hits ‘send’ he also sends up a little prayer the reply’s haughty aloofness will manage to ruffle Sherlock’s pique, thus keeping him from a closer scrutiny of what deep wells of despair are flooding Mycroft’s breast.

_Was it your intention to replace our current arrangement?_

Almost breathless with fear he watches the movement of Sherlock’s eyes beneath the nearly translucent lids as they dash across the message. 

“Of course not,” Sherlock says straightaway, gaze seeking Mycroft’s through the camera’s eye. His expression is one of a fear tantamount to Mycroft’s , horror almost. 

Relief pours into the holes that signified the loss of all hope a few seconds ago to add another solid layer to the foundation of unconditional love Mycroft feels for his brother. Right that moment he doesn’t wish to deny him anything, especially when Sherlock frowns, pushes out his lower lip as he’s wont to do when seriously considering a problem and adds, “I thought of it as more of... ” here Sherlock hesitates in uncharacteristic hesitation before boldly venturing on, “an occasional variation. For _both_ of us. He’ll never need know.”

At least Sherlock shows the courtesy to present his own desire as a scheme that might be of commensurate profit to Mycroft. Fond pride in his brother’s ingenuity flushes Mycroft’s cheeks. A few years ago Sherlock wouldn’t have been capable of such sly diplomacy, which proves he does occasionally adhere to Mycroft’s admonitions after all. Perhaps that means Mycroft ought to be equally generous and not oust the suggestion, regardless of the repugnance it incites in his very soul.

 _That does have slightly more appeal._ he types. 

For in truth, he doesn’t have to watch or listen in on John Watson pawing Mycroft’s treasure. Much like the rest of the world his brother’s bed is a stage with Mycroft conducting the play enacted there. His actual presence isn’t needed once the drama is unfolding, just as Mycroft doesn’t bother traveling to foreign parts to witness the outcome of his choreography. If his little brother’s heart is set on bedding his flatmate Mycroft will give him leave to do his damnedest and grant him a few months of indulgence. In all likelihood Sherlock will tire of the doctor soon enough. If he doesn’t Mycroft will simply resort to different means to ensure the affair is ended with none any the wiser.

On the screen Sherlock’s posture is one of uncommon trepidation, his right hand distractedly kneading the bedclothes as he stares into the camera again to say, haltingly almost, “It was just a suggestion. We needn’t if you don’t want to. I just miss…” 

His voice falters. More than ever he looks like the lost little boy who has just realised his big brother’s departure for boarding school implies he won’t be able to see his idol for weeks. In front of his screens Mycroft swears under his breath. His yearning to sweep his beloved into his arms and hold him close mirrors the whole gamut of silent longing written over Sherlock’s features. Mycroft draws a hand down his face and heaves a deep breath. Somehow his sigh encompasses all the sorrows of the world. 

His fingers tremble but he manages to send off a text nevertheless. _I can see how it might do you some good._

“I never had any intention of…” Sherlock returns immediately, “not without you here.” The assertion is, of course, futile, as Sherlock would understand if his mental faculties were up to their usual standards. Emotions tend to confuse him, an often-wearying quality that might now actually work to Mycroft’s advantage in this startling turn of events. A pang of his conscience causes Mycroft to pause midway through his reply but he stifles the inconvenience with the easy nonchalance developed in a lifetime of forging difficult decisions.

_Yet how could you ensure I would be free to join you when it was time?_

As intended the text returns Sherlock’s habitual look of exasperated disdain to his face. He sounds like his petulant self again when he replies, “I would wait to hear from you first, as always. _Achilles_ might suit.”

Achilles. Now Mycroft is honestly amused. Sherlock has always espoused an inordinate fondness for the supposedly invincible hero, in spite of or maybe as the result of Mycroft’s attempts to explain the man was nothing but a brute and a boor, and a fellow without any true sense of honour besides; reneging his pledge to his sworn liege for the sorry sake of a squabble over the spoils of war. Mycroft’s sympathies lie with the Trojans first and foremost, and their admirable quality to bear every turn of the great wheel of fortune with such fortitude and dignity. The bane of Mycroft’s life is his close affinity with that other Greek, whom he secretly despises, for his trickery led the Greeks past Troy’s walls and to its ultimate destruction. Sherlock, however, has never professed an interest in the tale’s moral lessons. Perhaps his veneration of Achilles stems from the man’s stature as the most spectacularly stroppy human being who succeeded in raising the stakes for the fine art of sulking to almost unattainable Olympian heights. 

Quietly laughing to himself Mycroft answers, _And then simply seduce him to order?_ Feeling playful suddenly he adds after a moment’s reflection, _You certainly have a high opinion of your own abilities._ before sending off the text. For Sherlock’s skills at seduction have been tested once only, and, to Mycroft’s great mortification, the hesitant trembling press of his young brother’s lips against his had figured as the principal theme in Mycroft’s masturbatory fantasies during many years prior to the monumental event, which renders the conquest hardly praiseworthy. 

Still, Mycroft would be the last to deny Sherlock is extremely good-looking and he can be very persuasive if it serves his interests. Nor does he lack in confidence, a trait Mycroft usually values so he isn’t surprised when Sherlock smiles brazenly into the camera and declares, “With good reason.” 

His eyes dart back to the phone he’s still clasping close to his chest to read Mycroft’s final words of consent to his wretched proposal. That knowledge, the reconfirmation that Sherlock won’t move without Mycroft’s express stamp of approval shines like a beacon at the end of the tunnel John Watson’s illicit eavesdropping has dug them. As the eldest, Mycroft ought to be the wisest, always, whatever his real opinion might be.

 _Very well. I suppose we shall see, then._ he texts in a final stance of bravery, before throwing the phone back into the drawer and muting the sound. He reaches for the wipes and sets to cleaning himself and the underside of the desk. 

A groan of dismay escapes Mycroft when he spots the splatters of ejaculate on the floor and the leather of the chair. He hadn’t realised he’d spilled so much, but then again it had been several weeks since their last encounter. With a grunt he bends to swipe up the stuff. 

When all traces of their congress have been removed Mycroft rises and redresses, slowly and meticulously, taking great care to redo all the buttons on his waistcoat. Then he sits down again to devote himself to the vagaries of the NHS statistics, rigging the Indian elections and the capers of our men in Libya. 

Several hours later he glances up to find his brother asleep, the mobile still clasped over his heart and a smile of contentment on his face.


End file.
